A
groshery business, in short."
"Grocery?" repeated Mrs. Day, gazing blankly at him.
"Groshery," he said shortly, and looked hardily at her with his lips set,
his chin stuck out, and his quick observant eyes on her face.
"Grocery?" she reiterated faintly, at a loss for anything else to say.
"You know that nice bright little business in Bridge Street? Carr's. Old
Jonas Carr's. He is retiring, you know--or perhaps you don't know--it's
been kept secret for business purposes. I am glad to have got hold of it
in the nick of time, and I am putting your little capital into the
business."
"Indeed!"
"It's a stroke of wonderful luck, I consider--its falling in, just now."
"But I do not quite understand. Will someone who is taking the shop allow
a good interest, do you mean?"
"Not exactly that, ma'am." He gave a sound that might have been caused by
a smothered chuckle, or have been meant for a snort of contempt, and going
from the table, placed himself upon the hearthrug, where he paused, making
a prayer perhaps for patience to be given him to deal with this fool in
her untrained, untaught folly.
"Not exactly," he went on. "I am taking the business for you to work,
ma'am. Jonas Carr is an old man now, but he has lived out of the business,
and brought up his children out of it, and this with only antiquated
methods.
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